Wasted
by L'Amazon Morte
Summary: Liv recalls a poem. Why didn't she run from SVU, given her story?


Disclaimers: Elliot, Olivia, and Law and Order:SVU belong to Dick Wolf and NBC.

The poem, 'The Waste Places,' is by James Stephens.

* * *

She stood on the roof of the precinct, staring out at the sky and the stars. The sky was beautiful. Really beautiful. New York skies and stars were bright, but that night, she could see the stars anyhow. Benson didn't even realize she was crying.

"Hey. What are you doing up here?" Elliot asked, staying back a bit.

"Thinking."

"Forgive me for this, for asking, but why do you do this to yourself?"

"You already know."

"Look, I know that, about that. But if it were me in your place, it'd be a reason to stay the hell away from this unit."

"It's hard to explain."

"Okay."

"I don't want to explain."

"Fine," he masked his frustration and turned to walk away.

"_As a naked man I go_

_Through the desert sore afraid._

_Holding up my head although_

_I am as frightened as a maid_,"

her voice trailed for a moment.

"What?" he pivoted back, toward her.

She swallowed hard and continued, her voice a bit louder, but still wavering,

"_The couching lion there I saw_

_From barren rock lift up his eye;_

_He parts the cactus with his paw_

_He stares at me as I go by_."

"Okay…" Elliot stepped closer and looked at her questioningly. Not quite how he would if she'd started speaking in tongues, but fairly close.

She closed her eyes, chanting the familiar words, she could focus on just them. The wavering stopped. She was back in high school English.

"_He would follow on my trace_

_If he knew I was afraid,_

_If he knew my hardy face_

_Hides the terrors of a maid_."

He stepped next to her, seriously starting to worry. Had his new partner slipped a gear?

In that English class, this had been the tricky part, where she'd lost confidence, had to look to the teacher to remind her of a word or two.

"_In the night he rises and_

_He stretches forth, he snuffs the air;_

_He roars and leaps along the sand,_

_He creeps and watches everywhere_."

Elliot shook his head, confused, "I don't get it. I'm sorry, I…"

Her favorite verse of it, the one that had made her choose the poem of the ones her teacher had given as options,

"_I am the lion in his lair;_

_I am the fear that frightens me;_

_I am the desert of despair_

_And the nights of agony_."

"Seriously, if you're kidding around, knock it off. If you want to talk, seriously, I'm here, if not…"

"_Night or day, whate'er befall,_

_I must walk that desert land,_

_Until I can dare to call_

_The lion out to lick my hand_."

She stopped. That was all of the poem that the teacher had given the class. The first half. Never even told them that there was a second. But after she had memorized it, about a year later, she had forgotten or jumbled a line of what she had taken as a personal anthem, her mantra. She'd looked it up. When she found it, read the whole thing. Found out that she only knew half, she shuddered. The second half… She forced herself to commit it to memory. It was as much a part of her as the first. When she got home that night, laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, she recited the whole of 'Waste Places' to herself. The new words literally made her ill.

"_As a naked man I tread_

_The gloomy forests, ring on ring,_

_Where the sun that's overhead_

_Cannot see what's happening_."

The part of the poem she wished she had never learned began.

More than beginning to worry, Elliot stepped directly in front of his partner, facing her, so there was something beyond three feet of space between her and the edge of the roof.

She didn't see him, or saw through him, or wasn't actually looking. Her eyes had opened, but they were hollow,

"_There I go: the deepest shade,_

_The deepest silence pressing me;_

_And my heart is more afraid_

_Than a maiden's heart would be_."

"Look at me, listen-"

She didn't do either.

"_Every day I have to run_

_Underneath the demon tree,_

_Where the ancient wrong is done_

_While I shrink in agony_."

He started to see where it was going.

"_There the demon held a maid_

_In his arms, and as she, daft,_

_Screamed against in fear, he laid_

_His lips upon her lips and laughed_."

"What happened to your mother wasn't your fault. You weren't even born yet," bad choice of words, he told himself the moment they were out. Very bad choice.

Benson's voice had fallen back to a whisper, cracking here and there, as she f0ught back tears.

"_And she beckoned me to run,_

_And she called for help to me,_

_And the ancient wrong was done_

_Which is done eternally_."

"You shouldn't torture yourself."

"_I am the maiden and the fear;_

_I am the sunless shade, the strife;_

_I the demon lips, the sneer_

_Showing under every life_."

As far as she could see, she was tied to it. All of it. Damn it.

"Olivia, it's okay. It's okay, it doesn't matter how-"

Tears were silently falling down her cheeks. The poem had betrayed her once. Being so brave and ironic, and becoming a permanent thorn, not just in her side, but in her heart, her soul, and her self. Her identity. Whatever that was.

"I must tread that gloomy way

Until I shall dare to run

And bear the demon with his prey

From the forest to the sun."

She had to make things right. She could escape the unfortunate circumstances of her conception if she could make things right. But odds were against her catching every perp, seeing every conviction. Preventing every harm. Couldn't happen, wouldn't happen. Forever, she would be her own torture, wandering the desert and darkened wood. Born to fulfill a task she was destined to fail.

* * *

I make no apologies for the peculiarity of this piece. I am sorry, however, if it was hard to follow.

Reviews are much appreciated.


End file.
